


Detox

by teyla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 11:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla
Summary: "What you’re doing is nothing but provide a sexual service I desire, and you’re not doing it for payment or for enjoyment. What would you call it, if not sex slavery?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some gratuitous porn written for a friend. Warning: snarky, not fluffy. Also incest, obviously.
> 
> Enjoy! Kudos are great, comments are greater.

“Is this even doing anything for you?” Looking up from Ann Coulter’s newest, Mycroft found his brother looking decidedly uninvolved. A bored eyebrow twitched before lazy eyes met Mycroft’s.

“Oh, you know. It’s tolerable.”

“Tolerable!” Mycroft curled his lip and squeezed his fingers into firm flesh. It sparked a reaction in those disengaged facial muscles, and some of Mycroft’s disgust was alleviated by spiteful satisfaction. “You should be more amenable, Sherlock. I am quite literally the only person in the world who is prepared to do this for you.”

“What?” A disbelieving little laugh accompanied the word. “Mycroft, you do know prostitutes exist, right?”

“Pros—“ Mycroft broke off in a huff and snapped his eyes back to his book. His right hand kept moving up and down in a steady rhythm. He refused to look at what he was doing; it was revolting enough to be doing it at all. The latex glove helped, even though he was going to have to scrub his skin for hours later to get the stink out. Of rubber, and of—other things. “As if you’d ever allow one to come close.”

“I’m allowing you to come close, aren’t I?”

The words were nonsensical, almost a non-sequitur. Mycroft lost track of the sentence he’d been reading for the third time, and pressed his lips together in frustration. “Are you calling me a prostitute?”

“Mhm.” Sherlock shifted his hips, dislodging Mycroft’s grip and rhythm for a moment. “No. You’re not getting paid, after all. I think _sex slave_ may be the more appropriate term.”

The cheek. Employing fifteen years of Cambridge rowing muscle, Mycroft tightened his fist and twisted. The throaty shout he elicited from his brother, combined with the sudden high arch of Sherlock’s back and his fingers twisting the sheets, were most gratifying. “Do you care to amend that assessment?”

Sherlock was panting now, eyes wide and shiny. He definitely didn’t look uninvolved anymore. A tongue came out to wet dry lips. “No,” and oh, the exasperating mockery in his tone; Mycroft had to exert every last ounce of self-control to keep from twisting his hand again. “I don’t care to at all, dear brother. What you’re doing is nothing but provide a sexual service I desire, and you’re not doing it for payment or for enjoyment. What would you call it, if not sex slavery?”

Sherlock was cheeky, he had a mouth bigger than the Queen’s hat at a royal wedding, but he was still Mycroft’s little brother. He pinned him with a flat, calculating stare, and employed the thumb flick that he knew Sherlock had no defences against. As expected, Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, and there was even a gasp. Most gratifying.

“Pity,” Mycroft said, keeping his tone short, matter-of-fact. “Benevolence. Philanthropy. I am helping you overcome a weakness that you should have mastered years ago, but in your great idiocy keep falling victim to. Every time, Sherlock, every time you go through withdrawal, your libido spikes like that of a randy dog. You think I’m your slave? I am not your slave.” He leaned in, and oh, Sherlock was involved now, the spark in his eyes pure hatred overshadowed only by even purer lust. Mycroft’s voice was soft and clear, the only thing audible in the room besides Sherlock’s panting. “I am your master. And you are nothing but my dog, obeying my every command.”

Harsh gasps escaped Sherlock’s mouth, droplets of spit blowing past his lips on every rasping exhale, breath speeding up just as Mycroft’s hand did. Disgusting, so disgusting. “Will you obey me, brother mine?”

“Never.” It was almost inaudible, and it made Mycroft smile.

“We’ll see.”

Another twist, another carefully targeted deployment of the tip of his thumb, and there it was: pale eyes glazing over, lush lips curving around a strangled moan, and warm liquid spilling over the rubber of Mycroft’s glove. He kept going until he could see his brother twitch in overstimulation, and then a little longer still, before he withdrew his hand.

“What are you, Sherlock? What will you always be?”

Defiance glowed in Sherlock’s eyes, just for a moment, but it faded quickly enough. “Idiot. I’m an idiot.”

“Of course you are.” Using the tip of his index finger and thumb only, Mycroft pulled off the soiled glove and dropped it on Sherlock’s sweat-glistening stomach. “Now go clean yourself up.”


End file.
